The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  ‘The attic,’ he says, his face now as pale as the discarded mask. ‘There’s dozens of them hanging on a rack.’

  He strains to free himself, but only a fraction of my weight is resting on the cane. I add a little more, pain unsettling his features.

  ‘How did you know about them?’ I ask, taking a little pressure off his hand.

  ‘A servant found us last night,’ he says, tears forming in his eyes. ‘He was already wearing one, mask and hat, the entire get-up. We didn’t have costumes, so he took us up to the attic to find some. He was helping everybody, must have been two dozen people up there, I swear.’

  Seems the Plague Doctor doesn’t want to be found.

  I watch him squirm for a second or two, balancing the veracity of his story against the pain on his face. Content that the two are of equal weight, I lift my cane, allowing him to stumble away, clutching his aching hand. He’s barely out of my sight before Michael emerges from the crowd, spotting me at a distance and driving straight towards me. He’s flustered, two red spots on his cheeks. His mouth is moving frantically, but his words are lost in the music and laughter.

  I signal that I cannot understand, and he comes closer.

  ‘Have you seen my sister?’ he yells.

  I shake my head, suddenly fearful. I can see in his eyes that something is wrong, but before I can quiz him further, he’s pushing back through the whirling dancers. Hot and giddy, oppressed by a sense of foreboding, I fight my way to my seat, removing my bow tie and loosening my collar. Masked figures drift by, naked arms glittering with perspiration.

  I feel nauseous, unable to take pleasure in anything I see. I’m contemplating joining the search for Evelyn when Cunningham returns with a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket crammed with ice, and two long-stemmed glasses tucked under his arm. The metal’s sweating, as is Cunningham. It’s been so long I’d quite forgotten what he’d left to do, and I yell into his ear.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Thought... saw Sutcliffe,’ he yells back, about half the words carrying through the music, ‘... costume.’

  Evidently Cunningham’s had much the same experience I had.

  Nodding my understanding, we sit and drink silently, keeping our eyes open for Evelyn, my frustration mounting. I need to be on my feet, searching the house, questioning guests, but Ravencourt’s incapable of such feats. This room is too crowded, his body too weary. He’s a man of calculation and observation, not action, and if I’m to help Evelyn, these are the skills I must embrace. Tomorrow I’ll dash, but today I must watch. I need to see everything that’s happening in this ballroom, cataloguing every detail, in order to get ahead of this evening’s events.

  The champagne calms me, but I put my glass down, wary of dulling my faculties. That’s when I spot Michael, climbing the few steps that lead to the mezzanine overlooking the ballroom.

  The orchestra is silenced, the laughter and chatter slowly dying down as all heads turn towards their host.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ says Michael, gripping the banister, ‘I feel foolish for asking, but does anybody know where my sister is?’

  A ripple of conversation washes over the crowd as heads turn to look at one another. It takes only a minute to determine she’s not in the ballroom.

  It’s Cunningham who spots her first.

  Touching my arm, he points towards Evelyn, who’s weaving drunkenly as she follows the braziers towards the reflecting pool. She’s some distance away already, drifting in and out of the light. A small silver pistol’s glinting in her hand.

  ‘Fetch Michael,’ I cry.

  As Cunningham pushes through the crowd, I drag myself to my feet, lurching towards the window. Nobody else has seen her and the commotion’s building again, the temporary fuss of the announcement already fading. The violin player tests a note; the clock shows 11 p.m.

  I’ve reached the French doors when Evelyn arrives at the pool.

  She’s swaying, trembling.

  Standing in the trees, only feet away, the Plague Doctor watches passively, the flames of the brazier reflected on his mask.

  The silver pistol flashes as Evelyn raises it to her stomach, the gunshot slicing through conversation and music.

  And yet, for a moment, all seems well.

  Evelyn’s still standing on the edge of the water, as though admiring her reflection. Then her legs buckle, the gun dropping from her hand as she topples face first into the pool, the Plague Doctor bowing his head and disappearing into the blackness of the trees.

  I’m only dimly aware of the screams, or the crowd at my back, surging past me onto the grass as the promised fireworks explode in the air, drenching the pool in colourful light. I’m watching Michael, sprinting into the darkness towards a sister he’s too late to save. He’s screaming her name, his voice drowned out by the fireworks as he wades into the inky water to scoop up her body. Slipping and stumbling, he tries to drag her from the pool, before eventually collapsing, Evelyn still cradled in his arms. Kissing her face, he begs her to open her eyes, but it’s a fool’s hope. Death’s rolled his dice and Evelyn’s paid her debt. All that was of value has been taken.

  Burying his face in her wet hair, Michael sobs.

  He’s oblivious as the crowd gather, as strong arms pry him from his sister’s limp body, hoisting her onto the grass so Doctor Dickie can kneel down and make his examination. Not that his skills are required, the hole in her stomach and the silver pistol on the grass tell the story eloquently enough. Despite that, he lingers over her, pressing his fingers to her neck to check for a pulse, before tenderly wiping the dirty water from her face.

  Still kneeling, he gestures for Michael to come closer, and, taking the weeping man’s hand, he bows his head and begins muttering what looks to be a prayer under his breath.

  I’m grateful for his reverence.

  A few women are crying into accommodating shoulders, but there’s something hollow about their performance. It’s as though the ball hasn’t really ended. They’re all still dancing, they’ve just changed the steps. Evelyn deserves better than to be entertainment for people she despised. The doctor seems to understand this, his every action, no matter how small, restoring some small part of her dignity.

  The prayer only takes a minute, and when it’s done, he drapes his jacket across Evelyn’s face, as though her unblinking stare is of greater offence than the blood staining her dress.

  There’s a tear on his cheek as he gets to his feet, and placing an arm around Michael, he leads Evelyn’s sobbing brother away. To my eyes, they depart older men, slower and more bent, carrying a great weight of sadness across their shoulders.

  No sooner are they inside the house, than rumours bounce through the crowd. The police are coming, a suicide note’s been found, Charlie Carver’s spirit has claimed another Hardcastle child. The stories are spun from one mouth to another and by the time they reach me, they’re rich with details and patterns, strong enough to be carried out of here and into society.

  I look for Cunningham, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t imagine what he could be doing, but he’s got a quick eye and willing hands so no doubt he’s found a purpose – unlike myself. The shot has shattered my nerves.

  Taking myself back to the now empty ballroom, I drop onto the couch from earlier, where I sit and tremble, my mind racing.

  I know my friend will be alive again tomorrow, but it doesn’t change what happened, or the devastation I feel at having witnessed it.

  Evelyn took her own life, and I’m responsible. Her marriage to Ravencourt was a punishment, a humiliation designed to push her over the edge, and, however unwittingly, I was part of it. It was my face she hated, my presence that drove her to the water’s edge with a pistol in her hand.

  And what of the Plague Doctor? He offered me freedom in return for solving a murder that wouldn’t look like a murder, but I watched Evelyn shoot herself after fleeing a dinner in despair. There can be no doubt about her actions or motiv
ation, which makes me wonder at my captor’s. Was his offer just another torment, a slither of hope to go mad chasing?

  What about the graveyard? The gun?

  If Evelyn were truly so despondent, why did she seem in such good cheer when she accompanied Bell into the graveyard, less than two hours after the dinner? And what about the gun she was carrying? It was a large black revolver, almost too big for her clutch bag. The gun she used to take her life was a silver pistol. Why would she change weapons?

  I don’t know how long I sit there thinking about it, amid the delighted mourners, but the police never come.

  The crowds thin and the candles gutter, the party flickers and goes out.

  The last thing I see before falling asleep in my chair is the image of Michael Hardcastle, kneeling on the grass cradling the dripping-wet body of his dead sister.

  21

  Day Two (continued)

  Pain stirs me, every breath painful. Blinking away the tatters of sleep, I see a white wall, white sheets and a blossom of crusted blood on the pillow. My cheek is resting on my hand, saliva sticking my top lip to my knuckles.

  I know this moment, I saw it through Bell’s eyes.

  I’m in the butler again, after he was moved to the gatehouse.

  Somebody’s pacing beside my bed, a maid judging by the black dress and white apron. There’s a large book held open in her arms, which she’s flipping through furiously. My head’s too heavy to see anything above her waist, so I groan to call her over.

  ‘Oh, good, you’re awake,’ she says, halting her pacing. ‘When’s Ravencourt going to be alone? You didn’t write it down, but the bloody idiot has his valet nosing around the kitchen—’

  ‘Who are—’ My throat is clogged with blood and phlegm.

  There’s a jug of water on the sideboard and the maid hurries over to pour me some, placing her book on the counter, while she tips a glass to my lips. I move my head a fraction, trying to look up at her face, but the world immediately starts to spin.

  ‘You shouldn’t talk,’ she says, using her apron to wipe a stray drop of water from my chin.

  She pauses.

  ‘I mean you can talk, but only when you’re ready.’

  She pauses again.

  ‘Actually, I really need you to answer my question about Ravencourt, before he gets me killed.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I croak.

  ‘How hard did that ape... wait—’ She lowers her face to my own, her brown eyes searching for something. She’s puffy-cheeked and pale with strands of tangled blonde hair straying free from her cap. With a start, I realise this is the maid Bell and Evelyn met, the one who was keeping watch on the butler.

  ‘How may hosts have you had?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘How many hosts?’ she insists, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘How many bodies have you been in?’

  ‘You’re Anna,’ I say, twisting my neck to get a better look at her, the pain setting fire to my bones. Very gently she presses me back down onto the mattress.

  ‘Yes, I’m Anna,’ she says patiently. ‘How many hosts?’

  Tears of joy prod my eyes, affection washing through me like warm water. Even though I can’t remember this woman, I can feel the years of friendship between us, a trust that borders on instinct. More than that, I’m overcome by the simple joy of this reunion. As strange as it is to say about somebody I can’t remember, I now realise I’ve missed her.

  Seeing the emotion on my face, answering tears form in Anna’s eyes, and leaning down, she hugs me gently.

  ‘I’ve missed you too,’ she says, voicing my feeling.

  We stay like that for a while, before she clears her throat and wipes the tears away.

  ‘Well, that’s enough of that,’ she sniffs. ‘Crying on each other isn’t going to help. I need you to tell me about your hosts or crying’s all we’ll do.’

  ‘I... I...’ I’m struggling to speak through the lump in my throat. ‘I woke up as Bell, then the butler, then Donald Davies, the butler again, Ravencourt and now—’

  ‘The butler again,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘Third time’s a charm, ain’t it?’

  Stroking a lock of disturbed hair from my forehead, she leans closer.

  ‘I take it we haven’t been introduced yet, or at least you haven’t been introduced to me,’ she says. ‘My name’s Anna and you’re Aiden Bishop, or have we done that part already? You keep arriving in the wrong order, I never know where we’re up to.’

  ‘You’ve met my other selves?’

  ‘They pop in and out,’ she says, glancing at the door as voices sound somewhere in the house. ‘Usually with a favour to ask.’

  ‘What about your hosts, are they—’

  ‘I don’t have other hosts, it’s just me,’ she says. ‘No visits from a Plague Doctor, no other days neither. I won’t remember any of this tomorrow, which seems a bit of luck given how today’s going so far.’

  ‘But you know what’s happening, you know about Evelyn’s suicide?’

  ‘It’s murder, and I woke up knowing,’ she says, straightening my sheets. ‘Couldn’t remember my own name, but I knew yours and I knew there was no escaping until we took the killer’s name, and proof of their guilt, to the lake at 11 p.m. They’re like rules, I think. Words scraped onto my brain so I don’t forget.’

  ‘I didn’t remember anything when I woke up,’ I respond, trying to understand why our torments would be different. ‘Aside from your name, the Plague Doctor had to tell me everything.’

  ‘Course he did, you’re his special project,’ she says, adjusting my pillow. ‘Doesn’t give a rat’s fart about what I’m doing. Haven’t heard a peep out of him all day. Won’t leave you alone though. Surprised he’s not waiting under that bed.’

  ‘He told me only one of us can escape,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, and it’s pretty bloody obvious he wants it to be you,’ she says, the anger draining from her voice as quickly as it came. She shakes her head. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be taking any of this out on you, but I can’t shift the feeling he’s up to something, and I don’t like it.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘But if only one of us can escape—’

  ‘Why are we helping each other?’ she interrupts. ‘Because you’ve got a plan to get us both out.’

  ‘I have?’

  ‘Well, you said you did.’

  For the first time, her confidence falters, a worried frown appearing on her face, but before I can press the issue, wood creaks in the corridor, steps thumping up the stairs. It feels like the entire house is shaking with their ascent.

  ‘Just a tick,’ she says, collecting the book from the counter. Only now do I realise it’s actually an artist’s sketchbook, the brown leather covers filled with sheets of loose-leaf paper, untidily bound by string. Hiding the book under the bed, she comes up instead with a shotgun. Pressing the butt against her shoulder, she stalks over to the door, opening it a crack to better hear the commotion outside.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ says Anna, kicking the door closed with her foot. ‘It’s the doctor with your sedative. Quick, when’s Ravencourt going to be alone? I need to tell him to stop searching for me.’

  ‘Why, who’s—’

  ‘We don’t have time, Aiden,’ she says, sliding the shotgun back under the bed out of sight. ‘I’ll be here next time you wake up and we can have a proper talk then I promise, but for now tell me about Ravencourt, every detail you can remember.’

  She’s leaning over me, clutching my hand, her eyes pleading.

  ‘He’ll be in his parlour at 1:15 p.m.,’ I say. ‘You hand him a whisky, have a chat, and then Millicent Derby arrives. You leave him a card introducing her.’

  She squeezes her eyes shut, mouthing the time and name over and over again, carving them into her memory. Only now, her features smoothed by concentration, do I realise how young she is; no more than nineteen I’d guess, though hard labour’s added a few years to the pile.

 
‘One more thing,’ she hisses, cupping my cheek, her face so close to mine I can see the amber flecks in her brown eyes. ‘If you see me out there, pretend you don’t know me. Don’t even come near me if you can help it. There’s this footman... I’ll tell you about him later, or earlier. Point is, it’s dangerous for us to be seen together. Any talking needs doing, we’ll do it in here.’

  She kisses me on the forehead quickly, offering the room a last glance to make sure everything’s in order.

  The steps have reached the hall, two sets of voices jumbled up and rolling on ahead. I recognise Dickie, but not the second one. It’s deep, urgent, though I can’t quite make out what’s being said.

  ‘Who’s with Dickie?’ I ask.

  ‘Lord Hardcastle most like,’ she says. ‘He’s been popping in and out all morning to check on you.’

  That makes sense. Evelyn told me the butler was Lord Hardcastle’s batman during the war. Their closeness is the reason Gregory Gold is strung up in the room opposite.

  ‘Are things always like this?’ I ask. ‘The explanations arriving before the questions?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she says, standing up and smoothing her apron. ‘Two hours, I’ve been at this, and all I’ve had are orders.’

  Doctor Dickie opens the door, his moustache just as preposterous as the first time I saw it. His gaze passes from Anna to myself and back again as he tries to stitch together the torn edges of our hastily severed conversation. No answers forthcoming, he places his black medical bag on the sideboard and comes to stand over me.

  ‘Awake I see,’ he says, rocking back and forth on his heels, fingers thrust into the watch pockets of his waistcoat.

  ‘Leave us, girl,’ he says to Anna, who curtsies before exiting the room, casting me a quick glance on her way out.

  ‘So, how are you feeling?’ he asks. ‘No worse for wear from the carriage journey, I hope.’

  ‘Not bad—’ I begin to say, but he lifts the covers, raising my arm to take my pulse. Even this gentle action is enough to cause spasms of pain, the rest of my response mangled by a wince.

  ‘Little sore, hmmm,’ he says, lowering my arm once more. ‘Hardly surprising given the beating you took. Any notion what this fellow Gregory Gold wanted from you?’